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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22661536">Where Perennials Wake</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallswithgrace/pseuds/Fallswithgrace'>Fallswithgrace</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>AKA a bard and witcher learn how to love, Ciri is wiser than her years, Family, Geralt learns what it means to really help Jaskier, Getting Together, Jaskier saves Geralt and Ciri with his songs, Love that beats destiny, M/M, Magic, Men struggling with destiny, Mutual Pining, Not that women aren't struggling with it, Post-Battle of Sodden Hill, Pre-Kaer Morhen, Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-16</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 15:28:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,912</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22661536</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fallswithgrace/pseuds/Fallswithgrace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“It doesn’t take a master bard to be able to tell you what destiny and story-telling have in common,” Jaskier laughed bitterly.</p><p>“Oh?” said the scarlet-haired mage.  “Pray tell. What is their common trait?”</p><p>“Destiny is a storyteller, the most persuasive of all,” Jaskier said gravely, slumping over the table.  “And according to her, some people have starring roles, and others, well… they’re the pushers and movers.”  </p><p> </p><p>Destiny places Jaskier in contact with a mysterious but oddly familiar Druid as he seeks inspiration for new songs (and maybe paving a safe path for a certain White Wolf and his Cintran Lion Cub).  Geralt finds his way back to Jaskier, because if there's any presence he can count on more than destiny, it's his estranged but faithful bard.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cirilla Fiona Elen Riannon &amp; Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia &amp; Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>104</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Dandelion, Hearty Flower of the Earth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hi All,</p><p>I have found my way to this story and fandom by pleasant surprise.  My knowledge of The Witcher is drawn entirely from the Netflix series and brief research into the books, so I apologize for any inaccuracies. </p><p>In contrast to the fated family of the sorceress, destined child, and witcher, this story is more concerned with the unlikely pairing of a bard and an immortal warrior, the most subversive of heroic tales and romances.</p><p>Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Hi All,</p>
<p>I have found my way to this story and fandom by pleasant surprise. My knowledge of The Witcher is drawn entirely from the Netflix series and brief research into the books, so I apologize for any inaccuracies.</p>
<p>In contrast to the fated family of the sorceress, destined child, and witcher, this story is more concerned with the unlikely pairing of a bard and an immortal warrior, the most subversive of heroic tales and romances.</p>
<p>Thank you for reading and sharing your thoughts!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I.      Jaskier</p>
<p>As destiny would have it, Jaskier was seated yet again in the corner of a grimy tavern.  The familiar odors of rotting hay and piss-stained boots soured the ale even more to his tongue.  As destiny would also have it, said tongue was in the midst of regaling yet another of the bard’s female companions with his tales of adventure.  The woman’s lovely fragrance was undiminished by her surroundings.</p>
<p>And, yet again, like always, <em>by constant divinations too cruel for a simple bard to fathom</em>, Jaskier simultaneously flapped his clever tongue while attempting to stamp out the perennial bloom of self-doubt in his breast. </p>
<p>Long had the seeds taken root.  During his childhood, the bard supposed, though all his life he concealed evidence of their sprouting.  The concealing part was easy.  The pestilence refused to be dislodged, however, no matter how searing the kiss he shared or how noxious the concoction with which he doused his innards.</p>
<p>That, it seemed, was also Jaskier’s destiny.  A bard would know.</p>
<p>“And it doesn’t take a master bard to be able to tell you what destiny and story-telling have in common,” he laughed bitterly.</p>
<p>“Oh?” said the scarlet-haired maid.  Her musical tones intensified her ethereal aura.  Jaskier had no idea what such a fine, odd lady was doing in a pub as bleak as this.  Maybe she was another poor refugee of the current continental crisis.  Perhaps she was lost, just like Jaskier, on a path that had long been uncertain and meandering.  “Pray tell. What is their common trait?”</p>
<p>“Destiny is a storyteller, the most persuasive of all,” Jaskier said gravely, slumping over the table.  “And according to her, some people have starring roles, and others, well… they’re the pushers and movers.” </p>
<p>On dry, cracking fingers he lifted his tired chin.  Then, he submitted to language that had no other recourse than song:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>The farmers bow whilst their crops rise,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The monsters growl whilst their prey flies,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The peasants make it day by day— </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Sole joys to stone the beasts away!</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Lead not their own lives; players these</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Serve more important entities—</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>From sidelines wound and fuck and lord,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Their use and death their sweet reward!</em>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fear not, my lad, to drown in fate,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>The tides, good ma’am, are obdurate;</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>This bard will sing your hopes up higher,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Just once this dreary tune expires.   </em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Doesn’t sound like the sort of ballad that earns a lot of coin." </p>
<p>“Would be better with the right tune,” Jaskier admitted.  “Their reputations might be romantics and charmers, my lady.  But, the troubadour’s acceptance of the true human condition is what allows him to prosper.  That way he can give the people what they really want.  Not the banal good and evil of their meager, everyday existences.” </p>
<p>“And what do they really want?”</p>
<p>Jaskier smiled.  It felt like bramble creeping up his face: knotting his cheeks, stifling his breath, and pricking him where it hurt most. </p>
<p>“Semi-immortal men, of course.  Not to mention graced with supernatural strength and superhuman brooding.  And silver and gold features, brilliant as the most precious of metals.  But also in possession of the least desirable personal characteristics— brute will, foolishness, pride, regret…!  Lonesomeness…”  Jaskier sniffed.  “T-they’re the ones who carve out the destiny of the world.  They’re pre-ordained to inspire horror and admiration in men and non-humans alike.”  Taking another swig of his godawful drink, the bard grimaced and continued, “And then, there’s mages.  The sisters of that cruel mistress Fate.  And just as terrible to behold.”</p>
<p>“Surely not all mages,” the woman said. </p>
<p>As she curled her fingers around her bracelet, the wooded tendrils began slithering across the fine bones of her wrist.</p>
<p>“Oh.”  Jaskier blinked.  “Right.  Almost forgot.  Don’t know how, though.  You see, I have a punishingly resilient memory for sorceresses.  I mean, how do you forget the scariest pair of eyes you’ve ever seen, burning with the violet flames of ambition and yearning?”  He huffed.  “I’ll tell you how.  You don’t!  Destiny doesn’t.  Destiny obsesses over unbroken, unbowed, amethyst-glaring mages.  And so does…”  Jaskier’s voice lowered, and he cleared his throat.  “And you know who else destiny doesn’t overlook?  Princesses.  Ones born from unlikely unions, promised to magical warriors while in the womb, and weaned on the armor-plated and blood-painted breasts of awe-inspiring queens before their kingdoms burn to the ground.”</p>
<p>“So, destiny and stories exist for figures such as these,” the woman mused.</p>
<p>“Damn sure does.”  Jaskier pounded his drink on the table.  “And they… they exist for <em>each other</em>.  It makes perfect sense.  The warrior, supposed to need no one but dogged by his Child Surprise all the same; the mage who wants a baby more than anything, when it seems her path toward power has robbed her of all chances; and the princess, bereft of family and seeking out new protectors.  Poetry.”</p>
<p>“You would know.”</p>
<p>“Thank you, my lady.  I <em>would</em>.  I’ve retold their stories many a time.  How could I not know that they, and only their fates are intertwined?  They’re threads locked in the fantastic tapestry of an epic saga.  Anything less would be madness.  Noise in a senseless world where love, redemption, and salvation have no potency.  And, as an artist, I grieve meaninglessness.  Yes, empty life and loss, war without end, conflict without regeneration, destroys me.  Though, as a person with… my own stakes and desires… I’m not sure if this turn of events won’t destroy me just as utterly.”</p>
<p>“Why is that?”</p>
<p>Jaskier didn’t quite cry.  He couldn’t.  He gestured broadly, knocking his beer with his knuckles.  “Because I know where I stand!”  He laughed, a little hysterically, and more golden liquid sloshed over the rim of his glass.  “I’m the story’s chronicler, its unwitting enabler— but never its star.  I have regaled enough heroic feats and heartbreaking ballads for that to be painfully clear.” </p>
<p>The woman across from him <em>hmmed</em>.  It was a sound so familiar it verged on painful, though the pain was somewhat ameliorated by the woman’s sympathy.</p>
<p>Or at least, what appeared to be sympathy.</p>
<p>Jaskier could never tell with mages.  They were tricky creatures like that.  Most of the time, it was if they had nothing better to do with all their experiences of the world’s wisdom and woes than to make honest, struggling bards feel inadequate. </p>
<p>Geralt was a freaking Witcher, and even he didn’t make Jaskier feel as unimportantly irritating as dust blotting a magicky, old tome.</p>
<p>Well—he hadn’t, for the most part.</p>
<p>“I was just grateful, you know?”  Jaskier tried to flash a winning smile.  If there was one thing he regretted about the mountainside, it was that he couldn’t do just that.  It was hard to tell whether it veered more in the direction of a grin than a grimace from the alcohol numbing his face.  “Grateful that he even let me tag along.  I mean, not that he let me, per say… but, he <em>did</em>, or I’d have received much worse than a punch to the gut!”</p>
<p>The woman smiled encouragingly as laughter bubbled from Jaskier’s tired throat.  It died just as abruptly.  Groaning, he slid a hand down his face.  Yep, still couldn’t feel his lips.</p>
<p>“… He made me feel as close as I’ve ever felt to the center of the story,” Jaskier confessed.  His voice was quiet, so quiet he wondered if his companion could hear it over the rancorous tavern crowd.  Maybe it was better if she didn’t.  “Adventure!  Real living.  Companionship… like I was… a part of it.  Something special.” </p>
<p>Even when he’d had money and a title Jaskier experienced it: the hollow realization of his own insignificance in a world of greatness and terror and devotion. </p>
<p>That knowledge haunted young Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove.  The impotence of his familial wealth to increase his sense of actual self-worth disillusioned him.  Then, the history he learned and the beatings he was subjected to at temple school solidified it. </p>
<p>“Julian Alfred Pankratz wasn’t special,” Jaskier muttered over the rim of his glass, the vowels unfamiliar on his tongue.  When was the last time he even uttered that name?  “Gah.  Unremarkable, forgettable man!  Fleeting. <em> Jaskier, though.  </em>He might not be a royal or a knight or a monster.  But, at least he knows the value of company, good food, welcoming beds and, most importantly, sweet, sweet, indescribable music.”</p>
<p>“And what value is that?”</p>
<p>“It makes him feel alive.  Less outside of it all.  Like he can touch the universe by plucking the strings of his lute and feel the thrum of his vocal chords sending near-magical vibrations into the air to rejoin the rest of the universe.”     </p>
<p>“I think that sounds lovely.”  The woman tilted the axis of her neck, allowing her sheet of silky, crimson hair to drape over the porcelain of her shoulder.  She was beautiful, but in an oddly untouchable, foreboding way, like the wild heart of a primeval forest. </p>
<p>Jaskier chuckled.  “You, my dear, are lovely.  Me, I…”</p>
<p>“And brave.” </p>
<p>Jaskier snorted (bad habit, he must have picked it up from Geralt).  “If you mean foolhardy, then I wholeheartedly agree.”</p>
<p>“I mean <em>brave</em>.”  For the first time, the woman averted her emerald gaze, but Jaskier could still see beyond a doubt that those were indeed the eyes of a mage— soft and hard with knowing and pain.  “It’s not easy to… hold the center of your universe in your hands, and feel how strong and fragile it is.  Touching something so important… loving it, helping it <em>grow</em>, maybe you’re not prepared for that responsibility.  Sometimes, it’s easier to run away.  To give it to someone else.”</p>
<p>“I didn’t run away,” Jaskier startled.</p>
<p>People could accuse him of running toward risks, and they had, but never did he shy away from them.  There was one direction he followed no matter what.  His gold and silver compass.  He definitely hadn't desired to give it away. </p>
<p>No, no. </p>
<p>Never that.    </p>
<p>But, that was destiny, and her perfect silver-haired, amethyst-eyed (glaring, alluring, scary-eyed), lion cub family.</p>
<p>What place had a bard there other than outside of it, peering through the window and singing of its beauty?</p>
<p>“I know,” the woman answered in a tone that perplexed Jaskier. </p>
<p>No matter how hard he tried to listen, however, or how he squinted, it was like he was experiencing the mage through a fog.  Damned alcohol.</p>
<p>“I don’t think I got your name,” he said, slowly.</p>
<p>The woman smiled and tucked a loose lock of scarlet behind her ear.  More than beautiful, there was something comforting about her.  Something disarming.  Something… familiar. </p>
<p>“No,” she said.  “You didn’t.”  She offered no explanation, and Jaskier remembered hazily that this wasn’t the first time he’d asked her this night.  Like every other time, however, he immediately lost interest in his realization and submitted to his ignorance.  The thought ebbed toward the back of his mind on a tide more persistent and powerful than alcohol.</p>
<p>Oh, right.  <em>Mages</em>.  Dammit. </p>
<p>Jaskier was no good with mages, but, at the present, it seemed unimportant.</p>
<p>“You may not have run away,” the woman continued, redirecting the flow of the conversation as she had been all night.  “But you still let him go.  Why?”</p>
<p>“He wasn’t mine to keep.  No, no, wait, that sounds too tawdry.  I knew it wasn’t going to last.  Dammit, that isn’t better!”  Jaskier ran his hands through his hair.  “… After what he told me, I couldn’t continue to fool myself that it was better if I stayed.  We had fun, you know.  Good times that still… it’s just… after, there wasn’t anything we could do for each other.  Not that I could ever do anything for Geralt, other than rouse a little coin.  And even that didn’t matter, because he didn’t <em>want</em> me— aww, shite, it’s not like I’m— destiny didn’t want me!”</p>
<p>Jaskier curled in on himself, and spoke to his lap, “Oh, Melitele, even that sounds like an excuse.”  Flinging a desperate palm at his lute, he exclaimed, “This is my role, and I know that!  I always knew it.  I just…” and he felt himself sink down, down into the worn, wooden bench, “I thought I could do it by his side, too.  Not so far away.  I-it doesn’t matter anymore.  I did it: I told the tales, far and wide.  Clearing his bloody way upwind of death and war.  For him and the child and…all of them.”  Jaskier breathed in and sighed out.  “It’s all I could do.”</p>
<p>“Your desires are true, and they must have been strong, in order to draw you to me,” the mage said softly.   “That, or your despair.”</p>
<p>“Despair?  Haha, why would I…!” Jaskier’s laugh shattered like an old bottle on the third chuckle.  “Ahem!”  He pounded his chest.  The stupid doublet might not have been new, but it should have been able to take a bit more abuse.  After all that tailor charged… “Please, excuse me.  It’s, uh, been a long night of performing.”</p>
<p>The woman smiled kindly at his lie, because Jaskier—</p>
<p>He hadn’t composed anything new for months. </p>
<p>Initially, sadness had turned into determination.  Determination to show Geralt that the White Wolf’s one blessing from fate couldn’t be Jaskier, his best friend, his only friend, ridded from his life.  That determination had transformed angry, yearning, unyielding thoughts into sweeping epics, noble exploits, fond remembrances. </p>
<p>People loved them.</p>
<p>They paved Jaskier’s way for years throughout the North, and it felt good having his songs valued by somebody.  At least then, it couldn’t all have been a waste. </p>
<p>Eventually, determination waned.  Naivety and pig-headedness will do that.  Desperation took its place, cold and fearsome.  It held Jaskier in its grips once news spread that Cintra had fallen, its indomitable lioness slain.  He watched people flee across the country with no hope other than that instilled by silly, aspirational songs.  So he made them.  A witcher and his bard, annoying and saving each other.</p>
<p>People needed them.</p>
<p>And, truth be told, so did Jaskier.  He played in the cold by refugee camps until his fingers were too stiff or his strings too frost-slick to produce a chord.  Even if this form of performance didn’t feel as good, it numbed the pain a little when winter settled with heavy, somber wings beneath Jaskier’s coat. </p>
<p>Then, desperation waned, as determination did.  And Jaskier thought about Geralt, who had despised him throughout the creation of every song for which Jaskier was celebrated; and he thought about how people were dying and suffering no matter what pretty words he spun in however mellifluous a melody; and he thought about how, inevitably, by sword or fire, his voice would fade and his breath would expire alone in a war-torn world.  With no resigned, companionable ear; no smirk and plain words of comfort.</p>
<p>And then… the music <em>stopped</em>. </p>
<p>And Jaskier could create nothing new.  Mourning and loneliness were his companions in bed.  They were there when he closed his eyes at night and opened them at dawn.  No lover’s embrace could chase them away.  No weeping or bile-filled cursing could dispel them, and Jaskier awoke with the only night-time companions who would without fail leave his throat raw and aching.  </p>
<p>On occasion his hands wandered to his lute, though it was often absently and without purpose.  Once he was massaging the strings with rosin.  Then his fingers remembered a head of fair hair with fine, silvery threads, tangled after a day of riding and fighting but slick with fragrant shampoo—</p>
<p>That was the closest Jaskier got to hurling his lute to pieces at his feet.</p>
<p>(He hadn’t, instantaneously cradling his instrument to his chest as he pelt it with praise and apologies.  <em>Such a good lute, it’s not your fault, my baby, my darling, my utter dear, your incompetent master hasn’t been giving you the loving attention you deserve</em>. </p>
<p>Still, it was an experience Jaskier didn’t bear repeating.  Especially after those pale locks featured in his very interrupted sleep.)</p>
<p>“Bard,” said the mage.  Jaskier blinked away his reverie.  Alcohol and magic: not a good combination.  “I’m going to give you the only kindness I know how to give— one dressed in the clothes of cruelty.”</p>
<p>“Luckily for us both, my lady, that appears to be the only kindness I know how to take.”</p>
<p>The woman shocked him with peels of full-bellied laughter.  The force of her mirth brought tears to her lovely jade eyes.  They darkened her lashes, glistening. </p>
<p>Pale eyes, Jaskier noted, had a tendency to be striking that way, though with Geralt, the lashes that framed his golden visage were dampened by sweat or lake water or—</p>
<p><em>Nope, nope, uh-huh!</em>  No more of that.</p>
<p>“Dandelion,” the woman said.  Her unabashed (and frankly, unwarranted) fondness made the bard’s stomach ache.  “Hearty flower of the earth, abundant no matter how fiercely the hare feeds or the farmer plucks.  Perhaps we were always fated to meet.”</p>
<p>Jaskier groaned.  “Um, noooooooo, I’d rather not— wait.  You’re a druid?”</p>
<p>“Yes.  Now”— the woman dabbed her fingers into her pouch and then withdrew them.  Catching Jaskier’s palm before he could protest, she traced the shape of a flower, petal by petal, in the red earth that glowed vibrant as a brand (but painless, thank god) on the bard’s skin.  “This will give you what you desire.”</p>
<p>“A flower?”</p>
<p>“The shadow twin of asphodel.  It has no other name.”</p>
<p>“Shado— it’s not cursed, is it?” Jaskier tried asking without obvious suspicion. </p>
<p>Only destiny would send him to a mage for a cursed flower.    </p>
<p>The woman shrugged.  “Too great a medicine may become a poison, and too great a blessing may become a curse.”</p>
<p>“Uh, that doesn’t really—”</p>
<p>“<em>Bez asfodelu</em> has been used to influence the minds of others, either by enchantment or manipulation,” the mage continued smoothly, “but it has also allowed users to divine sources of influence and insight in this universe otherwise unknown to man.”</p>
<p>“So, it’s…?”</p>
<p>“Inspiration.  Dreaming.  Access to chaos, not controlled, but momentarily reformulated as harmonious forces.  However, like all magic, it involves an exchange.  The flower will only give as much as you are willing to give it.  It will take as much as you are want to take.”</p>
<p>A super-powered hallucinogen.  Great.  That sounded all good and simple, but equal exchange usually meant something different in the magic world than according to Jaskier’s calculations— aka, lethal.  Or agonizing.  Or agonizingly lethal. </p>
<p>Still, he didn’t care. </p>
<p>The mage seemed to know that, and smiled a little sadly his way.</p>
<p>“Whatever you do,” she said, “don’t forget why you’re here, Jaskier.  Destiny may project heroes into the future, but they need storytellers to remind them of the past so they aren’t lost moving forward.  Without history, the future is merely chaos.  With history, the future becomes destiny.  We all need reminding how we arrived on our paths.  Some have been on them so long… they’ve forgotten.  Never forget how you came to be where you are.  Or your loved ones might lose their ways.”</p>
<p>“That might be the most metaphysical threat I’ve ever heard.”    </p>
<p>“It is advice,” offered the mage, “from one who fooled herself into believing her actions were to ensure the destiny of her most precious charge.  In truth, what she sought was to erase a personal history of bad decisions and heartbreak.  By losing sight of what she’d done and how she regretted it, she only renewed her errors.”</p>
<p>“Hah!  Sounds like a certain, awkward, hulking mass I know.”</p>
<p>The woman blinked.  “Does it?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, it does,” said Jaskier, considering.  “Funny.  What did you say your name was again?”</p>
<p>The woman smiled, and turned her charmed band once more.  “You are very keen, bard.  I’ve given up the right to claim what he needs, but… maybe… you can defend each other.”</p>
<p>“Defend?  From… who…?” Jaskier slurred.</p>
<p>“Destiny.”</p>
<p>The curtain of oblivion swept through Jaskier’s mind, and his tongue dropped, heavy against the floor of his mouth.</p>
<p>Not an hour later, Jaskier found himself in the tavern, alone, remembering nothing of his scarlet-haired companion.  Nor how the auburn flower found itself inscribed on his palm.  What he did recall, however, was that the blossom would allow him to obtain the little that destiny afforded him—</p>
<p>Jaskier, master bard, teller of tales.</p>
<p>The man who sung about everything he wanted but could never hope to obtain. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So, Visenna, Geralt's estranged mother, lends Jaskier her aid.</p>
<p>My suspicions, based on the last episode of season 1 of the series, are that she is alive. Though, who really knows if she's merely a ghost or hallucination? Certainly not Geralt or Jaskier! I am intrigued by her character, though, and thought she'd make an interesting segue back to Geralt and how he became who he is.</p>
<p>Next installment will feature Geralt's point of view.</p>
<p>Thank you for your time and thoughts!</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Snowdrop, Welcome as a Friend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>After the first chapter in Jaskier's perspective, this second will be in Geralt's.  </p>
<p>Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>      II. Geralt</p>
<p>Throughout a longer-than-natural lifetime of monster-hunting and persecution by all races of creatures, Geralt had never been saved by a song.  He’d survived whatever hardship he faced with raging mutagens, his swords, a well-placed kick, and a hell of a lot of cursing and luck when his odds seemed at their worst. </p>
<p>He had no reason to expect that <em>music</em>, of all things, would save him.</p>
<p>It certainly wasn’t what Geralt was thinking when he strategized paths on city outskirts and village by-roads to bring Ciri to safeguard at Kaer Mohren.  Though the Witcher had gotten word of the decimation of Nilfgaard’s forces and the halt of its continental invasion at Sodden Hill, he knew that he and Ciri would have to be careful.  Remaining soldiers, unsympathetic townsfolk, plotting third parties— they all posed too great of a risk.  He’d only just recovered his long-avoided Child Surprise.  Already precious, irreplaceable, brave and beaten Ciri.  He’d be damned if he lost her now. </p>
<p>On their rugged travels through moonless nights and mountain-passes, the pair succeeded for the most part at keeping a low profile.  Or as low a profile as a very evident Witcher and princess could. </p>
<p>Geralt didn’t think a song would fill their stomachs when they inevitably ran out of coin and food.  Geralt might have survived his poverty by hunting and camping in the woods, killing any bandits or beasts that crossed his way, but not Ciri.  For all her complaints of how she’d survived the fall of her kingdom and being on the run from knights, mages, and Dopplers, Geralt knew she was painfully human and vulnerable. </p>
<p>That was when the songs started:</p>
<p>“The great White Wolf!  If my eyes don’t deceive me!  Is it true?  You, slaying a dragon in Caingorn—”</p>
<p>“That basilisk, never a more fearsome creature seen, and you lopped its freaking head off—”</p>
<p>“That poor princess of Temeria!  How fortunate that she had you to break her curse before, sweet, sweet girl, she was put down like some common beast—”</p>
<p>“~for the war dogs ‘tis no honor, blessed that we would quick be goners, so far and wide let it be heard, the White Wolf ne’er breaks his word~!”</p>
<p>“Oh, <em>shut up</em>, before I get the Witcher to save me from your ghastly howling makin’ my ears <em>bleed</em>—”</p>
<p>“Take my coin—”</p>
<p>“It’s yours—”</p>
<p>“Wouldn’t want you to be stopped on your noble way—”</p>
<p>“Here, here, as much as you need!”</p>
<p>“Please.  It is what you are owed.”</p>
<p>“But I’ve done nothing for you,” Geralt replied.  His stomach felt thin as a drum-skin from hunger, his skin dry and cracked and matted in blood and dust.</p>
<p>The woman’s eyes drifted away from Geralt, and he turned, following her gaze: under an immense tree, a band of travelers human, elf, dwarf and half-ling and quarter-blood congregated.  Their eyes were bright despite the weary lines on their faces and their mouths open wide and smiling as they belted out song after song.  Men clapped their hands; women spun their partners by the elbow; and children laughed and cried as their parents drank in soothing silence.</p>
<p>Though Geralt knew that the firelight was their only source of illumination, it was almost as if they were infused with a light that had no visible form.  Only sound, aural enchantment.  Only hope against the ever encroaching dark.</p>
<p>“You’ve done more than you know,” the woman at last said, smiling.</p>
<p>It proceeded much the same way from refugee camp to frightened town to reveling bar: Geralt provided no service, and yet he was “compensated” with drinks and praise and money as music burst to life in the background. </p>
<p>The songs were familiar and strange all at the same time.</p>
<p>Geralt felt, like he did most the time Jaskier was involved, a mix of deep gratitude and resentment at the personal invasion.  He was just relieved the bard had enough sense not to name Ciri in relation to Geralt.  Though, he did hear ballads composed to Ciri and Cintra, and Geralt had to admit, they were the more substantial bits of Jaskier’s repertoire.  It seemed Jaskier was bent on rousing sympathy for the princess even as he muddied the story of her fate and whether she was alive and therefore pursuable. </p>
<p>Not that it prevented Geralt from getting captured by errant Nilfgaardian soldiers.  Honestly, he expected it to happen at some point or another.  He could have done without the mage, though.  Blasted spell-caster. </p>
<p>It wasn’t like Geralt expected to be saved by a song right now, really.  Mainly, he was planning how to free himself, incapacitate his infernal jailers without mortally wounding them, and he <em>prayed</em> to gods old and new that Ciri wouldn’t try to aid him and just continued to stay out of this mess.</p>
<p>Her safety was perhaps the only blessing in this whole predicament.</p>
<p>At least, that was before the song came up:</p>
<p>“Is it true?”</p>
<p>Geralt raised his head toward one of his guards.  The boy was barely a man.  His cheeks were sunken and face lowered as he nervously fumbled with the staff of his weapon.  He obviously had limited experience wielding the thing.  Whether the lad’s obvious nervousness came from his general situation— standing watch over a known superhuman killer, or talking to said killer while under strict orders by fanatical superiors not to fraternize with the enemy— Geralt didn’t know. </p>
<p>But, biting his lip, the boy repeated in a somewhat stronger voice, “Is it true?  What the songs say… about you?”</p>
<p>With Jaskier, the likelihood was whatever song, it was only half-true.  At best.  “Why do you care?” Geralt asked instead.  He was stupid when he was pissed and counting the seconds before a guard came in, dragging a kicking and screaming Ciri behind him. </p>
<p>“I… it’s just… they say you’ll slay a beast but not a man.  Never indiscriminately.”  The boy’s knuckles turned white on his spear.  “You’re there… to protect the innocents.  That’s why you kill.  To defend, not to… execute children.  Or men, lost in sleep.  Or mothers, weeping… shielding their babies with their naked backs.”</p>
<p>“It’s true,” said Geralt.  Too young, he thought observing the lad; and yet now a man, initiated in the violent, depraved ways of the world.  So Geralt faced the soldier like a man: he stared him in the eye without looking away. </p>
<p>The boy recoiled a bit at his golden look, and clutched the wall, breaking into mirthless laughter.  “A <em>Witcher</em> saves people,” he said, bitter and hoarse. </p>
<p>“Hmm.  But he also knows what it’s like.  Being forced to kill those who deserve better mercies.”</p>
<p>After a long moment, the lad tore his gaze away, muttering under his breath.  Geralt thought he’d put his mad notions to rest, but not a second later the boy tossed his spear to the ground and pressed the keys into the door. </p>
<p>He cursed as his fingers trembled and the keys clacked conspicuously together.  Geralt wouldn’t have been surprised if his outburst already drew the attentions of the other guards.  Still fumbling with the key-ring, the boy took a deep breath and then, in the smallest voice, Geralt heard him sing Jaskier’s melody.  A tale of heroism in hardship.</p>
<p>On the third verse, the boy’s face had cleared of fear and hardened with determination.  Then, Geralt was free.  He didn’t spare the lad a second glance as he lost himself under the cover of darkness, the diminishing sounds of frightened but defiant singing in his wake. </p>
<p>When he found Ciri hidden with Roach, the girl adamantly refused to cry.  Halfway as she pelt from the forest sanctuary to Geralt, however, she fell to her knees and into the Witcher’s arms, somehow both boneless and gripping him with the tenacity of a cockatrice.</p>
<p>Ciri had nightmares every night.  Geralt’s brief imprisonment, though, seemed to exacerbate them.  He watched the girl thrash under her sheet, whimpering.  Her face was pale and shining. </p>
<p>It was times like this that Geralt really didn’t know what the fuck to do. </p>
<p>Whenever he tried waking Ciri, she’d come out of her dreams hysterical and disoriented.  She’d beat Geralt with her fists before realizing who he was, and then she’d lie awake, staring through the dark at invisible horrors.  Geralt couldn’t just let her sleep on, though, as the increasing volume of her restlessness risked inviting trespassers.  </p>
<p>Considering his dilemma, it took some time before Geralt realized… he couldn’t hear Ciri’s cries anymore.  Startled, he checked her for signs of breathing.  The girl lay at his elbow, unharmed and calm and content. </p>
<p>What the hell?</p>
<p>Geralt didn’t <em>feel</em> things, but, if he did, he wouldn’t have been able to remember a time he was as incredibly happy. </p>
<p>Maybe Ciri was just growing out of the nightmares?  It seemed too sudden, though.  The trauma was still an open wound.</p>
<p>The next night Geralt learned the cause.  Ciri was breathing evenly in apparently undisturbed rest when, gradually, Geralt found her blinking awake.  Her green eyes weren’t entirely clear, but for once, they were soft, dotted with starlight.  Not sharp and glowing white-hot with panic. </p>
<p>“That’s nice.”</p>
<p>“Hmm?”  Geralt resumed stroking Ciri’s hair.</p>
<p>The girl smiled and touched his hand.  “Not that.  Though, it’s nice, too.  The lullaby you were humming.  I didn’t expect it.  You don’t seem like the singing type.”  The girl laughed.</p>
<p>Geralt frowned.  “I wasn’t singing.”</p>
<p>Ciri gave Geralt a face of her own.  “Fine.  Not singing.  <em>Humming</em>.  To help me sleep.”</p>
<p>Geralt did <em>not</em> realize he was doing anything that involved music and his mouth, or diaphragm, or lungs, or whatever.  He was nowhere near musical.</p>
<p>“Don’t stop,” Ciri complained, tucking herself in closer to the bank of Geralt’s body.</p>
<p>“I didn’t even know I was doing it.”</p>
<p>“Really?  Seems like a funny thing to be unaware of.”</p>
<p>“Probably have hundreds of songs embedded in me without my knowing.”  Geralt recalled the hours he’d spent with Jaskier.  Not one passed in silence.  “Like a tapeworm happily burrowed in an idiot’s innards.” </p>
<p>“At least it’s a happy curse,” said Ciri sleepily.  Geralt allowed her to prop her head up on his arm, her hair draping over his shoulder.  Though Geralt rarely felt cold, Ciri’s touch still brought a foreign warmth, verging on pain, to his aching body.  He tried not to think about it too deeply. </p>
<p>Ciri hummed, apparently mimicking Geralt.  Geralt immediately recognized the tune as one of Jaskier’s.  No matter how capable he knew himself of <em>recognizing</em> Jaskier’s tunes, he never imagined he could actually <em>reproduce</em> one.  But, when Ciri hummed, beautifully, she carried the tune note for note. </p>
<p>(Jaskier would have loved it.)</p>
<p>“You should tell me the words.”  Ciri yawned.  “So I can sing them to you.  When you can’t sleep.”</p>
<p>As the girl drifted back to peaceful unconsciousness, Geralt tightened his arms around her and tried not to wonder whether anybody had done that before for him.</p>
<p>(He tried not to feel at all.)</p>
<p>It turned out he didn’t have to wonder for long, because on the way to Kaer Mohren, song and melody ferried him and Ciri forward.  Day and night, pub or roadside party.  Jaskier’s ballads had apparently flooded the land with tragic and hopeful tales and buoyant and urgent rhythms. </p>
<p>Ciri took to humming them idly as they rode Roach. </p>
<p>At length, she mentioned, “there’s one about me.  The Ballad of the Lion Cub of Cintra.”</p>
<p>Geralt grunted. </p>
<p>“The bard knew me, too,” she said, almost like she was reprimanding Geralt for something.</p>
<p>“No, he didn’t.  He was just… there.”  <em>Causing all the mayhem</em>, Geralt thought once upon a time.</p>
<p>Now, as song upon song saved him, and Ciri watched him with bright eyes and an occasional hard-won smile—</p>
<p>He didn’t know what to think.   </p>
<p>“Did he know that you and I would find each other, too?”</p>
<p>“Who can say?”</p>
<p>The day Jaskier had left Geralt, the Witcher hadn’t given that implication.  With his condemnations of the bard, his Child Surprise, everything else, Geralt tried to shore himself up on a mountaintop of his own solitude and regret.  It was a type of existence at which Geralt excelled.  Becoming a Witcher, it was all he’d ever known.</p>
<p>“I think it’s what he hoped,” Ciri claimed.  “You can tell that he wishes well for you.  Every song is wonder and celebration of what you’ve done.  And me, too.  Even though he couldn’t know what kind of person I am.”</p>
<p>Geralt snorted.  “<em>Knowing</em> wasn’t the important part of the bard’s compositions.”  He was surprised by the softness of his tone. </p>
<p>Ciri paused.  “He sings about Cintra… the way I used to remember it.” </p>
<p>As Ciri raised her head, the first notes floated through the air.  They were faint like the fall of premature autumn leaves:</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>“Gold as the sun breaks o’er far horizons</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>See!  Flag-bearers of our history;</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>On banners azure prowl Cintras lions,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Born on the splendor of Queen Calanthe.</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Pale as the wheat in fields ripe for harvest,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Pavetta did brighten the Northern Court;</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>But as all treasure-seekers will attest</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Fine gilded prizes can only shine short;</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>
  <em>Bright were the flames that pierced the fateful night</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>And washed Cintra’s halcyon family,</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Yet, they could not outshine the world’s strongest light:</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Dawn-bringer, she’ll shine on eternally.”</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“…It sounds beautiful.”</p>
<p>Ciri smiled tightly.  “My grandmother always said I mangled the high notes.  Too much lion…” Her voice broke— “too little songbird.”</p>
<p>Ciri swiped the first tear away with the back of her hand, and she let Geralt catch the second with the calloused pad of his thumb. </p>
<p>“’Dawn-bringer,’” Geralt sang, in a voice low and gruff and toneless.  It was as if the act of singing abraded the cruel blade of his voice on a boulder of misuse.  He wasn’t made for such things.  He wasn’t supposed to make things— just preserve them until time broke them anyway, or until he broke them himself.  “’She’ll shine on, eternally.’”</p>
<p>Ciri grinned, and Geralt swore: this was the one thing he would not let himself break.</p>
<p>Trotting on, Ciri eventually slipped into “the Fishmonger’s Daughter”.  Geralt couldn’t suppress a laugh.</p>
<p>It was odd, crossing the land with Jaskier’s songs accompanying Geralt wherever he went.  They were unavoidable and unrelenting, just like the bard himself.  But it wasn’t <em>just</em> like traveling with Jaskier— the music was incomplete, a fanciful and flimsy vision of the man.  Not that Jaskier wasn’t inherently absurd and fanciful.  But songs alone lacked his less romantic traits, the human qualities that in others so alienated Geralt and sustained his apathy.  Like the high cries of fright when the troubadour literally crashed into trouble, or his frequent complaints about bad weather and walking distances, or his godawful tales of his sexual “prowess”, or his easy entreaties into Geralt’s health and wellbeing, or the jokes he made when he noticed Geralt slip into too heavy silence.</p>
<p>Geralt didn’t have a musician’s ear or a human’s heart, so he’d lumped them all together in a noisy sum before.  He never noticed all the variety in Jaskier’s arrangements, often with Geralt in mind. </p>
<p>That was when the music…</p>
<p><em>Stopped</em>. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A little slow-build up, but a reunion or two (spoilers: the reappearances of Jaskier and Yennefer) is coming up in the next chapter! </p>
<p>Thanks for reading and sharing your thoughts.</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>So, Visenna, Geralt's estranged mother, lends Jaskier her aid.</p><p>My suspicions, based on the last episode of season 1 of the series, are that she is alive.  Though, who really knows if she's merely a ghost or hallucination?  Certainly not Geralt or Jaskier!  I am intrigued by her character, though, and thought she'd make an interesting segue back to Geralt and how he became who he is.</p><p>Next installment will feature Geralt's point of view.</p><p>Thank you for your time and thoughts!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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